He lived in a small village in a dusty corner of Spain, a bony man of about fifty. He had little to do, and so he read. The flickering candle flame filled the corners of his room with ghostly shadows of giants and of dragons--for the only books he read were about the knights of old who roamed the countryside seeking adventures.
The horizon stretched out an invitation. He knew that he too must be a knight, must travel on a quest, must seek adventures. So he found a suit of rusty armor, made himself a visor of cardboard and tin, and he called himself Don Quixote de la Mancha.
In this spirited, lively retelling of the famous Cervantes classic, Michael Harrison's clear and lively style is beautifully complemented by Victor Ambrus's evocative paintings of the landscape of sixteenth-century Spain.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
Grade 3-7-This retelling of episodes from the Cervantes classic starts a little slowly, but the pace picks up considerably once the proverb-spouting Sancho Panza makes his appearance. Harrison selects only a few key adventures; the afterword describes the sections that were left out. His language captures the style of the original, and the transitions are generally smooth. The afterword recommends a translation of the whole book and provides biographical information about the author. Ambrus's artwork is well suited to the story; he captures the personalities of both knight and squire without reducing them to caricatures. Glowing watercolors alternate with either black-and-white sketches or silhouettes. The oversized format with its clear type and good use of white space is appropriate to the folk-tale style, although it may not appeal to older readers. While there is debate about the appropriateness of retelling (or abridging) classics, there is also an audience for them, and Harrison's offering treats the original with respect.?Donna L. Scanlon, Lancaster County Library, PA
Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Excerpt
Which describes the condition and profession of the famous gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha
Somewhere in La Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing. An occasional stew, beef more often than lamb, hash most nights, eggs and abstinence on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, sometimes squab as a treat on Sundays - these consumed three-fourths of his income. The rest went for a light woolen tunic and velvet breeches and hose of the same material for feast days, while weekdays were honored with dun-colored coarse cloth. He had a housekeeper past forty, a niece not yet twenty, and a man-of-all-work who did everything from saddling the horse to pruning the trees. Our gentleman was approximately fifty years old; his complexion was weathered, his flesh scrawny, his face gaunt, and he was a very early riser and a great lover of the hunt. Some claim that his family name was Quixada, or Quexada, for there is a certain amount of disagreement among the authors who write of this matter, although reliable conjecture seems to indicate that his name was Quexana. But this does not matter very much to our story; in its telling there is absolutely no deviation from the truth.
And so, let it be said that this aforementioned gentleman spent his times of leisure - which meant most of the year - reading books of chivalry with so much devotion and enthusiasm that he forgot almost completely about the hunt and even about the administration of his estate; and in his rash curiosity and folly he went so far as to sell acres of arable land in order to buy books of chivalry to read, and he brought as many of them as he could into his house; and he thought none was as fine as those composed by the worthy Feliciano de Silva, because the clarity of his prose and complexity of his language seemed to him more valuable than pearls, in particular when he read the declarations and missives of love, where he would often find written: The reason for the unreason to which my reason turns so weakens my reason that with reason I complain of thy beauty. And also when he read: ... the heavens on high divinely heighten thy divinity with the stars and make thee deserving of the deserts thy greatness deserves.
With these words and phrases the poor gentleman lost his mind, and he spent sleepless nights trying to understand them and extract their meaning, which Aristotle himself, if he came back to life for only that purpose, would not have been able to decipher or understand. Our gentleman was not very happy with the wounds that Don Belianís gave and received, because he imagined that no matter how great the physicians and surgeons who cured him, he would still have his face and entire body covered with scars and marks. But, even so, he praised the author for having concluded his book with the promise of unending adventure, and he often felt the desire to take up his pen and give it the conclusion promised there; and no doubt he would have done so, and even published it, if other greater and more persistent thoughts had not prevented him from doing so. He often had discussions with the village priest - who was a learned man, a graduate of Sigüenza - regarding who had been the greater knight, Palmerín of England or Amadís of Gaul; but Master Nicolás, the village barber, said that none was the equal of the Knight of Phoebus, and if any could be compared to him, it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadís of Gaul, because he was moderate in everything: a knight who was not affected, not as weepy as his brother, and incomparable in questions of courage.
In short, our gentleman became so caught up in reading that he spent his nights reading from dusk till dawn and his days reading from sunrise to sunset, and so with too little sleep and too much reading his brains dried up, causing him to lose his mind. His fantasy filled with everything he had read in his books, enchantments as well as combats, battles, challenges, wounds, courtings, loves, torments, and other impossible foolishness, and he became so convinced in his imagination of the truth of all the countless grandiloquent and false inventions he read that for him no history in the world was truer. He would say that El Cid Ruy Díaz4 had been a very good knight but could not compare to Amadís, the Knight of the Blazing Sword, who with a single backstroke cut two ferocious and colossal giants in half. He was fonder of Bernardo del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he had killed the enchanted Roland by availing himself of the tactic of Hercules when he crushed Antaeus, the son of Earth, in his arms. He spoke highly of the giant Morgante because, although he belonged to the race of giants, all of them haughty and lacking in courtesy, he alone was amiable and well-behaved. But, more than any of the others, he admired Reinaldos de Montalbán, above all when he saw him emerge from his castle and rob anyone he met, and when he crossed the sea and stole the idol of Mohammed made all of gold, as recounted in his history. He would have traded his housekeeper, and even his niece, for the chance to strike a blow at the traitor Guenelon.
The truth is that when his mind was completely gone, he had the strangest thought any lunatic in the world ever had, which was that it seemed reasonable and necessary to him, both for the sake of his honor and as a service to the nation ...
Continues...
Excerpted from Don Quixoteby Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra Copyright © 1995 by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. Excerpted by permission.Copyright © 1995 Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
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